Muzzle
by creepfight
Summary: Tate finds himself consumed by a dangerous game of infatuation with Lydia, a strange girl who for some sneaking reason, reminds him a life he feels he once had a grasp on.
1. Muzzle

Prologue

Sometimes he'd sit out on the roof and just watch the world at night.

It was safe up there. Not to say it was dangerous down there, but something about the relief of others comforted him. Up here he didn't have to worry about the reactions to his lack of inhibitions. It was his turn to judge the rest of the city dwellers and though he seldom did, the option was nice.

But there was always someone else there to interrupt his solace.

He'd never want to hurt her. The pale-faced girl that walked down the street every night had a habit of pulling him from his thoughts. Once her footsteps had come and gone he'd found it nearly impossible to regain comfort again. She crowded his thoughts; filling and spilling over and under them, beseeching him like a vigorous cancer. He'd wondered where she was coming from and where she was going. What kind of person was she, this fragile lamb who so arrogantly dared to stand in the view of wolves?

One night he decided to find out.

"Hey."

"Hi." She stopped and turned, a little off guard, hesitant with her position. It was so casual, not at all what he'd expected from his constant need to escape her, yet consumed with the thought of her. He silently cursed himself for the lack of presentation in his unceremonious greeting.

"Where are you going?" He noticed her stiffen under his intense glare. He hadn't meant to scare her, but something in him was intrigued with the control he had over her demeanor. Somehow, her curiosity was piqued as well. She'd walked by this house almost every night- The Murder House. She'd never once considered the residents that might have inhabited the impending structure. The sudden intrusion of the strange boy hanging off the wrought iron gate was surprisingly welcome.

"Just walking home."

"From where?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just always see you walking down here. Don't worry. I'm not stalking you or anything. I just always notice. I like to sit out on the roof on nights like this and well…it's kind of like looking at a star, you know? It's like you're so familiar but you're just so far away."

"Well it's not often you get to ask a star where it came from."

"No. But this is L.A. Plenty of stars walking about to ask questions. "

"Not the kind of stars you mean, though."

"No. Not at all." He shook his head. "They're all cheap- the celebrities. I wouldn't want to ask them anything."

She softened, finally relinquishing her resistance long enough to turn fully on her heel, plant her feet rather than have them at the ready. For now they could rest.

"Do you live in here?"

"No. I just like to sit out on some strangers roof." A broad, childish smile grew across his face in the wake of his sarcasm. She rolled her eyes in spite of herself. "Sorry." She shrugged. "It's just kind of hard to believe someone actually lives in the Murder House."

"Why's that?"

"Well I mean…it's the _Murder _House. Not really a title that inspires the idea of the life inside. Just the death."

"Well every dark has some light." He rolled his head to his shoulder but kept his eyes turned up at her from under thick lashes. She wasn't sure if she liked what he was implying, making her question her own motives for standing here and having such a seemingly intimate conversation with a complete stranger.

"You know, I think I'd better go." She said but he didn't see any movement in her lithe form that indicated she was ready to leave just yet.

"Why?" He asked on impulse, still watching her intently. "Did I scare you?" She said no, but she looked small, vulnerable; withdrawn, still standing there, magnetized by an energy that seemed to be emanating from him. He really didn't want her to go.

"Huh. I normally do."

"Do you normally stop and engage strangers in conversation?"

"I don't really ever stop and engage anyone in conversation."

"Well this is going to sound more cliché than I'd like it to but…why me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You seem lonely. Nobody deserves to be lonely."

"That's a pretty presumptuous observation."

"Well am I right?"

It was the first question he'd asked that she wasn't entirely prepared to answer, though neither of them had really answered the other at all. They'd both skillfully avoided having to give up any direct information. She opened her mouth to say something until she realized that her pause to respond had given her away.

"Ah ha." He mused. "Busted." Sardonic smiles had spread across both their faces

"Well so what if I'm lonely?" She laughed wistfully, tucking a mousy brown strand of choppy fringe behind her ear. "I don't think it's such a bad thing to be, do you?"

"Not all the time."

"So you know what it's like then?"

He paused as well, realizing that she'd cornered him. He was surprised to find himself defeated, as it was not an easy feat for someone to sneak around his own walls.

"Busted." She grinned, mimicking his brassy declaration.

"You caught me." He put both of his hands up in surrender and stepped closer, feet rocking on the edge of the curb. She looked down at her feet and back of the length of him, inhaling sharply and releasing slow and shaken. She too, had her toes against the curb, daunted by the sudden exaggeration in their height difference. But she was quickly learning how to counter his dominance. She straightened her posture, drawing her shoulders back and looked up into his green eyes, holding his consuming gaze with her own.

Neither moves. For a moment, it's as if time had frozen them both there for centuries, detached from the tangible realities of a life that once left more to be desired. But here, at the edge of the Murder House in suburban Los Angeles, they'd found something to look forward to; a riddle that for once beckoned a solution.

"Do you wanna come inside?" He asked, looking down the length of her, heat rising off her warm body in the chilled November air. He let his eyes fall lower down her face, stopping for the briefest moment at a pink, puckered mouth and down the neckline, along the gracious curvature that went on to form her shoulder and down all the other curves that made her up. The air was hot between them, both breathing cautiously in the rushes of a dangerous teenage infatuation.

"What are you going to do to me in there?"

"Well what do you think I'm going to do to you in there?" He craned his neck down, his words dancing feverish, warm breath cascading over her ear. "I'm going to murder you."


	2. Where Boys Fear to Tread

Prologue

Sometimes he'd sit out on the roof and just watch the world at night.

It was safe up there. Not to say it was dangerous down there, but something about the relief of others comforted him. Up here he didn't have to worry about the reactions to his lack of inhibitions. It was his turn to judge the rest of the city dwellers and though he seldom did, the option was nice.

But there was always someone else there to interrupt his solace.

He'd never want to hurt her. The pale-faced girl that walked down the street every night had a habit of pulling him from his thoughts. Once her footsteps had come and gone he'd found it nearly impossible to regain comfort again. She crowded his thoughts; filling and spilling over and under them, beseeching him like a vigorous cancer. He'd wondered where she was coming from and where she was going. What kind of person was she, this fragile lamb who so arrogantly dared to stand in the view of wolves?

One night he decided to find out.

"Hey."

"Hi." She stopped and turned, a little off guard, hesitant with her position. It was so casual, not at all what he'd expected from his constant need to escape her, yet consumed with the thought of her. He silently cursed himself for the lack of presentation in his unceremonious greeting.

"Where are you going?" He noticed her stiffen under his intense glare. He hadn't meant to scare her, but something in him was intrigued with the control he had over her demeanor. Somehow, her curiosity was piqued as well. She'd walked by this house almost every night- The Murder House. She'd never once considered the residents that might have inhabited the impending structure. The sudden intrusion of the strange boy hanging off the wrought iron gate was surprisingly welcome.

"Just walking home."

"From where?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just always see you walking down here. Don't worry. I'm not stalking you or anything. I just always notice. I like to sit out on the roof on nights like this and well…it's kind of like looking at a star, you know? It's like you're so familiar but you're just so far away."

"Well it's not often you get to ask a star where it came from."

"No. But this is L.A. Plenty of stars walking about to ask questions. "

"Not the kind of stars you mean, though."

"No. Not at all." He shook his head. "They're all cheap- the celebrities. I wouldn't want to ask them anything."

She softened, finally relinquishing her resistance long enough to turn fully on her heel, plant her feet rather than have them at the ready. For now they could rest.

"Do you live in here?"

"No. I just like to sit out on some strangers roof." A broad, childish smile grew across his face in the wake of his sarcasm. She rolled her eyes in spite of herself. "Sorry." She shrugged. "It's just kind of hard to believe someone actually lives in the Murder House."

"Why's that?"

"Well I mean…it's the _Murder _House. Not really a title that inspires the idea of the life inside. Just the death."

"Well every dark has some light." He rolled his head to his shoulder but kept his eyes turned up at her from under thick lashes. She wasn't sure if she liked what he was implying, making her question her own motives for standing here and having such a seemingly intimate conversation with a complete stranger.

"You know, I think I'd better go." She said but he didn't see any movement in her lithe form that indicated she was ready to leave just yet.

"Why?" He asked on impulse, still watching her intently. "Did I scare you?" She said no, but she looked small, vulnerable; withdrawn, still standing there, magnetized by an energy that seemed to be emanating from him. He really didn't want her to go.

"Huh. I normally do."

"Do you normally stop and engage strangers in conversation?"

"I don't really ever stop and engage anyone in conversation."

"Well this is going to sound more cliché than I'd like it to but…why me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. You seem lonely. Nobody deserves to be lonely."

"That's a pretty presumptuous observation."

"Well am I right?"

It was the first question he'd asked that she wasn't entirely prepared to answer, though neither of them had really answered the other at all. They'd both skillfully avoided having to give up any direct information. She opened her mouth to say something until she realized that her pause to respond had given her away.

"Ah ha." He mused. "Busted." Sardonic smiles had spread across both their faces

"Well so what if I'm lonely?" She laughed wistfully, tucking a mousy brown strand of choppy fringe behind her ear. "I don't think it's such a bad thing to be, do you?"

"Not all the time."

"So you know what it's like then?"

He paused as well, realizing that she'd cornered him. He was surprised to find himself defeated, as it was not an easy feat for someone to sneak around his own walls.

"Busted." She grinned, mimicking his brassy declaration.

"You caught me." He put both of his hands up in surrender and stepped closer, feet rocking on the edge of the curb. She looked down at her feet and back of the length of him, inhaling sharply and releasing slow and shaken. She too, had her toes against the curb, daunted by the sudden exaggeration in their height difference. But she was quickly learning how to counter his dominance. She straightened her posture, drawing her shoulders back and looked up into his green eyes, holding his consuming gaze with her own.

Neither moves. For a moment, it's as if time had frozen them both there for centuries, detached from the tangible realities of a life that once left more to be desired. But here, at the edge of the Murder House in suburban Los Angeles, they'd found something to look forward to; a riddle that for once beckoned a solution.

"Do you wanna come inside?" He asked, looking down the length of her, heat rising off her warm body in the chilled November air. He let his eyes fall lower down her face, stopping for the briefest moment at a pink, puckered mouth and down the neckline, along the gracious curvature that went on to form her shoulder and down all the other curves that made her up. The air was hot between them, both breathing cautiously in the rushes of a dangerous teenage infatuation.

"What are you going to do to me in there?"

"Well what do you think I'm going to do to you in there?" He craned his neck down, his words dancing feverish, warm breath cascading over her ear. "I'm going to murder you."

Chapter One

Tate never much cared for gay couple that occupied the house.

It wasn't the fact that they were gay that bothered him, but they were just _so loud._ When they weren't bickering or crying, they were scurrying about the house rambling on about color swatches, living room themes and duvet covers (whatever those were). They were scarcely able to hold his attention. He much preferred the company of the other occupants of the house.

The trouble with them however, is that they hardly enjoyed him. The living residents were at least ignorant enough of his presence that he didn't earn a sneer every time they'd pass by him. Until he killed them, that is.

How foolish. Now he was stuck with them. And now they were bitter, just as everyone else was.

Most days he sat alone in his former room, unable to find a comfortable place in the lack of atmosphere. It was always lonely when the house was unoccupied. Every so often however, he'd find an old book or a box of artifacts left behind to entertain his isolation.

But now…now there was someone new. Someone living and breathing, heartbeat and all. Someone with a clean slate. And that was something he could work with. A guinea pig of sorts. Right now he was just testing the waters to see how much he could actually away with.

"So what's your weapon of choice?" She asked, strolling around the kitchen, opening drawers and surprisingly not finding much. There was something uncomfortable about how desolate such a place was.

"Probably a knife." He answered with his back to her. He opened the one drawer that contained anything- one long, dull butter knife.

"Really?" She took a curious step towards him.

"Yeah." He turned and took slow strides towards her, eyeing the knife and rubbing his thumb against the old serrated edges. "A knife is personal. Guns and all that…that's business." He stood uncomfortably close to her now, curious eyes peering up into his darkened ones. "But a knife really gets the blood pumping." He pressed it hard against her chest. "It's like a passionate, raging spectacle. And all that blood…" He trailed off shaking his head, blonde curls brushing her forehead.

She scoffed. "Yeah. There's something really intimidating and personal about ripping someone apart with a butter knife."

He threw his head back and walked away, throwing up his arms. "There's not much to work with here, okay? Do I get points for creativity?" He haphazardly left the knife on a counter and sauntered through the threshold past the grand staircase, an odd rhythm in his step. She hurried behind him, not entirely convinced that she could stand to be alone in this house. But she was enthralled, taking special care to gaze at every detail of the great old house. She almost felt lost, in a time warp as Tate led her into the parlor.

"This is my favorite room." He grinned, standing in the center of the impressive, empty expanse, turning to face her and watch her reaction.

"Hot shit…" she trailed off, dazedly strolling towards him, hardly conscious of her movement as she took her macabre surroundings. "This shit is _gnarly._"

"Tell me about." He huffed. They stood side-by-side, eyes transfixed on the gory scene displayed on the wall. Women, naked at the feet of demons, impaled on crude instruments; The Devil himself whispering into the ears of old men clutching daggers and piercing their own hearts with tortured expressions.

"Who did all of this?"

"I'm not sure. They've been around awhile. I think the realtors are gonna put wallpaper over them or something but…I like them." He shrugged. "I guess it'll be nice to have it fixed up a bit though. They gotta make this place look real homey to sell it after all the shit that's happened here."

"Is that why it's so fucking empty in here?" She broke her trance like state and turned her head to face him. "Are you moving or something?"

"Ehh…not really, no. I just stay here while the house is empty. I know how to get in and uh…it's a nice escape from home, you know? Plus, no one ever bothers me here. The maid comes around every now and then but she never says anything." It seemed like a simple enough lie. Little did he know, this slightly twisted admission produced a better outcome than he could have anticipated.

"You just do that?" She slowly backed away, a broad grin on her face. "You sleep here and everything?"

"Sometimes." He looked away sheepishly and took small cautious steps her way. No matter where they were, it was a constant struggle of who could keep up with who, who could hold control over the situation while trying to retain an air of mystery. Tate was hesitant as he stepped towards her, unsure if he was willing to let her win this round.

"That's so sick…how big is this place?" She turned and took off at a bouncy trot through the house, swinging around the banister and up the stairs. Once she'd reached the top and looked up and down both narrow hallways, Tate appeared at the bottom. "You're derailing my tour." He called up to her. She raced excitedly down and stopped at the last step in front of him. "I wanna stay here."

"What?"

"This place is _insane _man. You wouldn't even notice I was here. Plus a chance to get out of my dad's house…" She trailed off and sighed happily, the mere idea inspiring a freeing sensation. "I just…I could finally _be _myself and not have to worry about…" She grimaced, not exactly sure how to phrase the feeling that loomed darkly over her when thinking about her father.

"Not have to worry about the pressure and judgment?"

"Yeah…" She her face back to his. "What's your name?"

"I'm Tate." He stated, nodding his head. "Who're you?"

"Lydia." Her excitement sobered and there was a genuine, heartfelt smile on her face. "Tate, could I stay here? I'll stay out of your way, I promise. I won't ever bother you unless you want me to."

"Oh I want you to." She stepped down and headed towards the door, barley noticing his suggestive intonation. She grabbed the doorknob and he turned to face her. "So is that a yes?"

"Uh yeah." He scratched the back of his head and smiled wide, averting his eyes and trying to focus on the floor. "Yeah, of course." He tried not to give away how uncomfortable translating genuine emotions to someone else made him. He didn't think she'd noticed.

"Thanks, Tate. I'll be back tomorrow with some things. Same time same place?"

"Sure."

"Cool." She slid out the front door and closed it, leaving Tate standing dazed in the foyer. He laughed in spite of himself and shook his head, wandering off to the basement, somehow feeling a little more at ease tonight.


	3. Beautiful

"So…you know this isn't a permanent thing, right?"

Tate watched Lydia as she spread out heavy blankets on the wood floor of the barren master bedroom. "You can't stay once the new people move in."

"That's okay, Tate." She looked upon the nest she had made for herself and smiled, crossing her arms in satisfaction. "I'm no stranger to moving around."

"Really?" He asked, moving in closer and feigning innocent curiosity. "Where've you been?"

She shot him a knowing glance over her shoulder. "Around." She offered a coy grin before sliding her track jacket down her arms and letting it drop to the floor. "Don't think I'm giving up that easy."

He laughed and shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. "Don't disappoint me."

"I won't. Just like I know you won't disappoint me, right?"

He watched her move, still distant even in such close proximity. Long, slender limbs of porcelain extended in graceful, fluid motions, bent at a tiny waist and reaching for an overstuffed duffle bag.

She looked and moved like a dancer; thin, long, delicate but by no means fragile. He could see the surprising toned muscle stretch with her arms from her yellow t-shirt that hung loose around her shoulders, strong but subdued.

He'd noticed the pace and flow of her movement some time ago, watching her walk by and taunt him every night. Yet here she stood before him, this strange creature who just decided she could stay here with him. He didn't even have to ask. He didn't even know her name.

Of course, maybe it was better she didn't know anything about him. He'd have underestimated her if she would stay after finding out who he is.

He wondered…

No. He wouldn't. Besides, he really _wouldn't _want to disappoint her. Not while he could still have some fun.

But still, he really couldn't help but stare.

He'd never seen her quite so close before. Her face was wide and pale, angular, framed by straight across fringe, long pieces falling long and wispy against sharp cheekbones, short and shaggy in the back.

But he already knew what her hair looked like.

It was her face that fixed him there, staring, wide eyes attempting to swallow her whole.

A pixie nose and full, pink lips set with dark eyes, outlined in heavy liner, thick lashes curving high under thick, arched brows.

He thought that he may even try to have some fun with all of that too.


	4. Take Me Down

"You know you look kind of familiar."

Lydia sat cross-legged on the floor of the parlor, peering over the top of an old newspaper at Tate, standing on a stack of milk crates. He had found them shoved in the corner of a shed in the backyard, another item left behind by residents who never made it out of the house alive. The realtor had come in a few days earlier with two men and had them cover the vivid, violent murals with deep red wallpaper. He was peeling it away. "Just to freak them out a bit", he'd said with a laugh.

"Do you really think that's a great idea?" She'd asked him before he began his project. "I mean what if they put this place on watch and start creeping around…find us here."

"Are you kidding me?" He scoffed, stacking the crates. "After all the shit that's gone down in this house, peeled wallpaper isn't going to warrant a SWAT team."

She wouldn't have noticed it then, but looking back on it she might have taken care to pay a little more attention to his seemingly indifferent demeanor. Eyes cast downwards, he shook his head and tried to push the hails of bullets raining on him from the SWAT teams rifles from his mind. Now was not the time to start getting sentimental. He already had enough at stake.

"You gonna pull my own lame line on me now?" He looked at her over his shoulder, moving slowly to avoid crashing to the ground. He reached up and started scraping his nail at the corner of another sheet of wallpaper.

"What lame line?" She lowered the newspaper, interested in what it was he could be referring to.

"Oh you know…so familiar yet so far away…that whole star bullshit…" He pulled at the uprooted sheet and managed to rip off at least half of it. However, it seemed his crates only gave him enough height to reveal the bottom halves of the paintings.

"Was that really just some bullshit line?"

He jumped down, realizing his efforts were going to be futile and balled up the sticky red paper in his hands, moving closer towards her. "Well it worked didn't it?"

"You can think that if you'd like."

Lydia wasn't about to lose the game that she was now very aware of. She shared a secret smile with herself, hiding it with her newspaper, feigning absorption so he wouldn't notice her own insecurity that maybe he had just been trying to make a move on her when he approached her that night.

He stood in front of her, looking down at the top of her head. "Oh, so you're not sitting here in front of me right now?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Oh admit it." He threw his head back and moved to sit down next to her. He mimicked her position and leaned his face in close to her. "You just couldn't resist my wit and charm."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Well if I'm resisting anything, it certainly isn't that."

"Oh yeah? What is it then?"

"The real world." She turned the large page in an attempt to keep up her ruse of reading. She wasn't fooling him and she knew it, but it was too much fun keeping up with the pageantry of it all. After all, that's all they were doing anyway; putting on a show for one another, curious to see who would give in to their temptations first.

He smiled. "This is definitely the place to get away from that. Where'd you find that anyway?"

"Attic." She leaned back onto her elbows and kept it upright in her interlocked legs.

Tate paused. "You went up in the attic?"

"Are you shitting me? An old haunted house with a history of murder and suicide? Fuck yeah I went up in the attic. I'm gonna find out what really went down here too since you've offered me next to nothing on that."

"You never asked."

"Like you'd tell me anyway."

She continued to gaze over the old print. His eyes darted to the top of the page to get a glimpse at the date. 1968. The year the sorority girls got murdered. So maybe she was finding out more about the house, but Tate was still free of suspicion.

With that concern out of the way, he considered his options carefully when pressing her about what she may have found in the attic.

"Franklin murders. Nice." He nodded, referring to the large black and white photo accompanying the article. A girl, no older than eighteen, hog-tied, blood spattering her otherwise stark white nurses uniform, lay dead on the couch that used to sit in this very room.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

He shrugged. "This place is kind of a local legend. I used to have this thing with serial killers and my curiosity couldn't really avoid its prominence. That's like the _least _fucked up thing that's happened here."

"You don't think two girls getting butchered here counts as fucked up?"

"They weren't butchered. One was stabbed in the back, the other drowned in the tub. Besides, Franklin was a wannabe anyway. Manson was already reigning Helter Skelter on LA by the time he got his shit together."

"Bullshit, Manson was a year later."

"What?"

"Manson was '69, dude. He barely had the family moved out to the desert by the time all this shit happened."

He wasn't impressed with her basic knowledge of the most prolific serial killer of all time. In fact the only reason he didn't know this was because he found Charles Manson to be overrated. The guy didn't even kill anyone. The girls did, he just got all the credit.

What did catch him, however, was her dismissal of his questionable interest.

On the rare occasion that Tate spoke to a girl, her usual reaction to this normally resulted in complete termination of their contact. But not Lydia. She countered his knowledge of serial killers with facts of her own rather than shuddering and writing him off as someone who belonged in an institution.

He could relate to her. He'd never been able to establish that kind of connection with another human being, let alone someone as enticing as her.

She was winning.

At least this round.

"So what else did you find up in attic?" He asked, trying to attain some semblance of detachment from the statement. This could make or break things.

Thankfully, she was too caught up in uncovering prior mysteries to be bothered with notions of what could be lurking in the upper levels of the house.

"Nothing really. Just some old photos and newspapers and junk." Relief released itself from him in waves at her careless dismissal. The spirits of this house wouldn't cling to her the way they did to the other residents. There wasn't enough time and she was simply a temporary abstract.

At least he hoped.

"Oh! And this crazy BDSM suit? It was just hanging there! Scared the fucking piss out of me." She looked over at him, wide eyed with bemusement but Tate's internal panic could reflect anything but that, anticipating yet another challenge to overcome in an already watered down version of his life.

"I mean you've been up there right? You had to have seen it." She continued on, neglecting to notice the urgency of her finding.

"Yeah, I've seen it." The admission seemed so tense. He remembered seeing it for the first time, clinging embarrassingly tight around someone else's body, the man who's relationship was suffering at his own hands.

No, the suit fitted him much better.

He remembered the first time he put it on, clean, dark and tight. Agile; quiet, even. In that suit, he felt a familiarity with his true self, the darkness that dwelled in the farthest reaches of his mind, unrelenting in their assaults on the barriers he tried to construct around them and push them away, manifesting. In that suit it could walk freely, explore the urges he had so longed to give in to. It raged and lived and breathed now, pulsing and bulging in muscle and sinew against the latex as he pulled the knife from the man's stomach and plunged it once again into his neck, the blood spattering beautifully across the hardwood floor. And before the other had time to react, his neck hung broken in a barrel.

He shrugged. "Scared me the first time I saw it too. Probably belonged to the gay couple that lived here before."

"A likely story." She cocked an eyebrow and grinned wide, and if it weren't for her expression, his heart may have dropped. "I bet it's yours. Kinda sexy."

"Oh yeah?" He thought of Chad's skin as he ripped it open, splaying in clean cuts as the blood spilled over in dark floods.

The thrill alone was enough to get him off. Not that he found any kind of sexual arousal from it; this was a much different kind. Savage and primal, screaming for release and finally it happened. It was heavy; freeing, as if a lifetime of pain and sorrow and anger was wrought upon the man. And with the rubber mask pulled tightly over his blonde curls, Tate somehow felt his true face reveal itself.

And _she _thought that was kinda sexy.

"Yeah." Her impish grin remained, though darkened now as she threw a long left leg across his waist and pulled herself up, straddling him, torsos pressed together. "I bet you love it. All wrapped up, just a shadow." Her voice was low and her breath was hot on his neck. "Lethal." She draped her arms over his shoulders, barely grazing the small of his back, fingering the hem of his sweater. "Preternatural." He conceded, almost as a question urging her to continue, translating some sort of recognition as he felt himself stiffen. He ran his hands up her thighs, hungry and desperate. Her hair fell on either side of his face, tickling his cheeks and neck. Her eyes slowly fell down the length of his profile, foreheads almost touching, finding reason to linger a glance on his lips and come back to contact. She was hot against him, looking into his eyes, seeing more than their vibrant blue, but the chaos clambering out of dark pupils, clawing and screaming, some sick compulsion that didn't belong there in the first place. She rocked her hips up against his and his breath hitched before she opened her mouth, letting the word hit him and slowly seep in. "Caustic."

"We're gonna need a fucking thesaurus." He said dazedly, transfixed on her stare that stood for their mutual intellect, almost begging her to go on and engage him and feel him and relate and move and breathe.

She rolled off of him laughing, on her back to the floor beside him. He watched her, not entirely realizing she had detached from him until she had already stood up again. "Well Tate, that was fun." It was almost condescending when she smiled down on him, as if entertaining his notions were a game for her.

But that was just it.

Somehow he'd slipped, forgotten the rules and let her come too close, allowed a glimpse into what was really dwelling at the core of his timid exterior.

Or was it more? Was she pushing him for release, expressing her own vulnerabilities and truths? He didn't know and by the time he'd thought to ask, she was already walking away, a certain sway in her saunter.

"Hey was that a come on?" He shouted, still on the floor.

"Ha!" She barked and turned to go up the stairs. "Why don't you try and find out?"

He had a score to settle.


	5. By Starlight

Tate stepped cautiously through Lydia's open door and felt as though he had stepped into a dream. Long candles flickered warmly away in an elegant candelabrum, casting her shadow against the bare walls from where she stood. In the center of her warm nest of red and orange afghans and blankets, her hair jutting out in inky angles in the dim glow, she resembled some sort of ethereal being, dancing in the fleeting moments between when she came and when she'd eventually leave.

"Whoa."

"Do you like what I've done with the place?"

"It uh…actually looks like a room now." He chanced a further step in and then another, surveying the small area carefully, not wanting to disrupt any of her elements.

She stretched her arms long over her head and stretched her neck before folding to the floor, bare feet pressed together in front of her. "Yeah but it's still missing something. And I was hoping you could help me find it, Tate."

It echoed in his mind, the way she constantly said his name when addressing him. He could've listened to it all, consuming him slowly and growing, calling his attention to her every word and immerse himself in just the thought alone. Sometimes he caught himself going over the memory repeatedly, attempting to focus on every innate detail of the sound.

His name was sharp and quick, hardly appealing in any sort of aesthetic sense, but she made it sound inviting. Long and drawn out on her slow, playful, articulate tongue that grazed the back of her teeth as she began and almost smiled through the interim before pouting her lips and raising an eyebrow at the end of it. It was the same every time, but every time he had to pay careful attention to all the details and spare himself the curiosity of missing something.

"What'd'you mean?" He asked, confused.

"Well," She began, pulling her messy hair into a spiking ponytail and dragging her over packed duffle bag closer. Tugging the zipper open, she began to rummage through the budging canvas, shoulders rising and falling in round, fluid movements. "I brought a couple of records with me-sentimental reasons, really. I know they seem kind of…I dunno, stupid of me, I guess but-"

"That's not stupid." Her eyes shot up at his, his brow harsh but gaze sympathetic and relaxed despite his urgent tone. She cocked her head, still staring up at him, nearly begging for him to continue and push her vacillation away, give her something to find solace in, somewhere to feel okay while doubting herself. In a glance, she put some trust in him.

He had her.

That glance was all it took for him to know that he wasn't going to be suffering a loss. He could tell her things, show her things, do things, have her do things, say things; it could all be so perfect, in its own way, to finally have some control and inherent understanding of a situation, to form something and keep it.

But it was going to require some work.

Not to say he wasn't enjoying himself.

At this point she had retreated back to searching through her bag and pulled out a small stack of 12" album sleeves. "Yes it is." She scoffed, shaking her head.

He kicked off his shoes and strode closer to sit in front of her, duffle bag between them. "It's not." He assured her and this time when she looked up, she didn't look away. He pushed the duffle bag out of the way without having to sacrifice any of their eye contact. He wrapped one firm hand around both of her feet and pulled her closer, sliding across the blankets on the wood floor. The corner of his mouth curled in a smile, their knees touching and toes squished up against the others.

"You have something important to hold onto. Something that makes you feel shit. Everyone needs that. For when you're empty and carved out and hollow and you _beg_ that the darkness swallows you up before anything else on this spinning pile of shit does. You have something to pull you out of that. And that's not stupid."

Softly, she smiled.

Tate felt these moments arising more and more often, though fleeting, he still noticed. Little glimpses into Lydia, uncovering bits and pieces of her, relics of her own pain. And after years of solitude spent tangled up deep inside his own self, he was finally finding his own comfort and warmth, a place to escape to and be himself and feel something when there was otherwise nothing left. And looking at her, now, the way she was looking at him and seeing that and smiling, made him feel as if it might not be so bad for her to know that.

"C'mon, I wanna show you something." He stood up and held out an open palm for her before she could say anything else. He didn't need her too. All she'd be doing would be telling him what he already knew; that he was right.

She gingerly placed her own delicate hand in his and he helped pull up off the ground. He dropped his hand, still enclosing hers. She looked up at him, unsure as to if she should continue on and follow him, hand in hand. He rubbed his thumb over the warm creamy skin of her hand and gave it a light squeeze then relaxed. As if by an inherent effort, she weaved her fingers around his and saw a slight smile start before he turned his head to hide it from her and led her out into the hallway.

"Where are we going?" She asked after a moment's silence as he gently pulled her along. He dropped her hand and walked a few steps ahead of her before stopping. "You'll see." He grunted as he reached his hand up and pulled on the drawstring dangling above his head to reveal the stairs to the attic.

"After you." He gestured towards the stairs and stood aside as she looked on wide-eyed.

"And they say chivalry is dead." She nodded, passing him and making her way up.

"Well I either brought it back to life or it's just an excuse for us guys to let you go first so we could check out that ass." He grinned to himself as he followed after her. She craned her neck over at him to catch him doing just that.

She shrugged.

"I can't really blame you." She pulled herself up to the attic floor and brushed herself off as she waited for him to make his way up.

He laughed. "Please, don't be modest or anything."

"There's no need to be if you're not going to give me a reason to." She tossed her fringe out of her eyes as he slowly realized she was right. "So what'd you have to show me?"

They stood among the dust-covered trappings of the past, the rubber suit hanging ominously before them. Artifacts cast long, narrow shadows by the light of the moon, shining in from the tall window in front of them.

"Follow me." He said, ducking out of the shadows. He walked over to the window and with some effort pulled it open while Lydia stood and watched. He straddled the sill, one leg in and one leg out and grabbed onto the ledge of the roof outside. Lydia walked over cautiously and leaned her head out of the window to watch as he swung his other foot around, skillful footwork gained from countless visits to the roof, and pulled himself up.

"Do you need help?" He asked, smiling down at her, as she looked up, confused as to how she would follow him without falling to the ground below. But even with her life at risk, she was in no position to ask for his help.

"I think I can manage."

She followed his actions and, though with less grace, met him on the edge of the great house.

"Wasn't so hard." She grinned but he only gazed at her wistfully.

"Nothing is hard up here." He turned his head to the sky. "I just feel so far away from it all up here. It's like I can finally just rise above everyone else and look at all these fucking stars and I can't help but feel like I'm not alone in this, you know? Like, with all the fucking burning intensity of space and all that inhabits it, I kind of have at least some sort of basic connection to it all. Like I'm not just a missing puzzle piece. I can kind of fit in for once."

She watched him intently as he searched the stars for some greater existential solace, but found him there all the same.

"You don't need to fit in, Tate." She placed a small, careful hand on his shoulder. "It's okay that you're not like everyone else. Because the truth of the matter is, everyone else sucks. But you…you're not so bad. And sometimes when you try and find yourself in other people, you lose sight of who you are. So you have to stop looking. And just wait. Because every now and then, you'll find someone who doesn't need you to fit in just to find some common ground."

"Yeah. She used to walk down this street every night." He laughed and nudged her playfully in the ribs. She smiled, though sobered quickly as she watched him laugh, so care free for once.

"Do you really mean that or is it just some lame line again?"

And they laughed again, though this time together and this time it lasted a long time until they were close together and laying down on the cold shingles under the cool, clear November sky and for once, neither of them were alone.


End file.
